If I may blur the lines
by hoppingpen
Summary: Set in S08E22 "The C-Word" containing spoilers for that episode and various previous ones. Includes flashbacks to House's infarction and post-infarction rehabilitation. Rated T for language. Not slash and no obvious romantic pairings. Hurt/comfort.
1. Thrust into wretchedom

The scene is set in Season 8; the episode entitled "The C-Word," in which House and Wilson attempt to give Wilson chemotherapy to treat a Stage II thymoma. We've ended the scene where House devilishly administers a highly potent painkiller to the pair of them and Wilson's drifted off into a drug-induced sleep. (The rest is my concoction, with a few key ingredients thrown in courtesy of the actual paid Housian gang.)

_Maybe if I went to church…_

House was lying awake, spread-eagled on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

_Or if I stopped cursing…_

It was that precarious hour between 2 and 3 am in which every insomniac feels the first twinge of being alone.

_It's probably all the blaspheming I do…_

And so it came to be that House was brainstorming all the theoretically divine reasons he had been thrust into wretchedom. His venomous thigh was pulsing, actually twitching.

_There's no way it's the drugs. God invented drugs. I bet that's the drugs talking…_

To get up and pace would be to wake Wilson- a threat barely mentionable, even in his head. To lie still would require further thought, and even he had a limit to useless self-deprecation, no matter how much it made him grin. It was very dark.

Wilson's muscle twitches had abated. Up next were the gastrointestinal symptoms. Then sweating and pain. Hallucinations if Wilson were lucky.

A better man would at least think that he would take the pain for his buddy. But he couldn't be that better man. Not now. What he could do was be there, although it went against every fiber of his being. Wilson was the helper. Wilson cared. House was the _anti_-carer. But without Wilson, House couldn't be _anti-_ anything. Every atheist needed a theist to exist, and without Wilson, House… well, he just _didn't_.

God, it was dark. And so quiet. He waited. He closed his eyes.

_You couldn't even smell Stacey in the room anymore. She'd left long ago. The bandage covered from his groin to his knee. It felt like the stitches went through his bone. Where had she gone?_

_There was cold on his forehead. He turned his head away, but he could imagine the worry creases between Wilson's eyebrows. _

_Fever, heat, soreness. Someone opened a window. A breeze. So nice._

_After PT he always shook. The pain and exertion left his muscles tight and sensitive. Wilson had made his favorite- or what used to be his favorite. He made Wilson leave the dinner tray in the bedroom, propped up for him, but he never let him stay. No polite conversation or awkward looking away as House fumbled with the silverware. He embarrassed himself enough as it was- no need for an audience. But it was no use- he threw the fork against the wall, and in doing so painted a nice little mashed potato picture on the wallpaper. He felt like and three-year-old, and carefully turned over in bed. Sleep could begin quickly this evening._

"_F**k off, Wilson!" He wanted to sleep. He did not want dinner. He did not want and audience. And he was angry. Which of course made the shaking worse. He also had not taken his medicine, but Wilson didn't need to know it was because he couldn't get the lid off._

"_House, muscle tremors are no reason to be embarrassed."_

"_I said 'f**k off." _

"_And I'm not going to ask you or help you. I'm just going to do it. So there's no choice in the matter. I'm tired of seeing my wonderful cooking go to waste- your juvenile taste buds have a lot of growing up to do."_

_And Wilson had actually done it. He'd undone the blankets, propped House up against the headboard and guided spoon to mouth. He ignored both House's most powerful glare directed right at him and the way that House had flinched in response to the invisible spasms and knocked a glass of water onto his incredibly starched khaki Dockers._

A beeping sound. What was it? It wasn't cheerful. Morse code? Beep…beep…beep… no. Too steady. House started to wake up now. It was annoying is what it was. A cane was going to be stuffed in whatever orifice was handy if a neighbor was blaring music while Wilson was trying to sleep. Wilson. Wilson?


	2. A moral spasm

It was the monitor beeping. A glance at the clock showed 4:16… a good hour's sleep then, for both of them.

"I'm sorry, House,"

Why was Wilson crying?

"What hurts?" House turned off the offending monitor- it appeared chemo bag one had finished. "Wilson, what hurts?"

"Don't… sit down."

And there he saw it. "Wilson… you've peed the bed!"

He'd meant it as a joke, obviously, but something had gotten into Wilson. He'd actually turned a strange shade of red, like a turnip, and turned his head away.

House sat down. Now that made Wilson look at him again. "House! I said _don't_ sit down."

"Yes, and I said that you'd peed the bed, and now, you've peed on me. Perfectly good sweat pants, ruined. Now, instead of spanking you, I'm going to do something far worse…"

What House had been going to say had been golden, really, pure gold, but Wilson puked.

"See now, House," Wilson said weakly, "I've peed and puked on you, and I've a mind to complete that alliteration with a number three... er… two, I mean."

He did manage to smile, but only a bit, as the puking resumed.

He kneeled down and held the trashcan.

"You lied… it doesn't taste better coming up."

"Here's another one… you look great!"

"House… I need more morphine…"

"We're out. You've been using my personal supply…"

"_Wilson! Wilson! Help me!"_

_Wilson had finished feeding him and gone to bed- which really was more of a couch right outside House's bedroom in the converted living room. He came rushing in, knocking over the walker by House's bed._

"_Where is it?"_

"_Where do you think? Aah…" His right leg was crimson, muscles rippling underneath as if snakes had burrowed in and taken hold, gripping, biting. Wilson opened the closet door, furrowing away the walker and dumping pillows down from the upper shelf._

"_Here, here, let me have it," he stuffed pillows underneath House's lower leg and told House, gently, to point his toes toward the ceiling, in what turned out to be an unsuccessful attempt to keep the spasm from spreading._

_What seemed like hours was actually five minutes, and the spasm hadn't stopped, although House's verbal outbursts had. Wilson had given him a washcloth to bite down on, since his lips were already bloodied. He sat, waiting, hating himself for yawning and thinking of bed, when House was going through hell yet again tonight. Thankfully House's eyes were closed in concentration and Wilson could steal a glance at his alarm clock, now glowing red with evil eyes spelling out 3:30am. _

_He didn't know how, but he had drifted off and his chin was touching his chest when he heard the faint whisper. _

"_Wilson? Wilson?"_

_He looked up, at House, his lips red again from biting. What time was it? Almost 4am…_

"_Wilson? Wilson... I'm sorry."_

"_What, where?" He was still shaking sleep out of his eyes._

"_Wilson… I needed to go to the bathroom."_

"_OK, yeah, yeah, sure. Let's go."_

_Wilson came around to House's good side, ready to lift._

"_No, Wilson, I mean, I needed to go. But not… not anymore."_

"_Oh."_

"_I'm sorry, really."_

"_No, no it's fine, House. Let's… let's… well, do you have to use the bathroom anymore?"_

"_No." House was averting his eyes. He needed to do something, a joke, some sort of tension breaker. But Wilson wasn't any good at those then. He'd gotten better now, though. Much better, actually. Now there's that beeping noise again._


End file.
